The Grey Mile
by Ophium
Summary: Set back in season 1. An alternative route, in which Sam is not the only one with different abilities. Warnings for some mild het-sex and lots and lots of swearing. Complete.


THE GREY MILE

The first time it happens, Dean's too busy coming to be aware of anything else. Her name is Jessica, but he insists on calling her Rabbit because it's just too weird to be fucking a girl with the same name his brother wakes up gasping in the middle of the night.

He tells her that it's because she's just as hot as the Jessica cartoon in that movie and that they're gonna fuck like bunnies and she gladly agrees to the pet name. And everything else that Dean suggests after that.

They do. Fuck like bunnies, that is. With enough enthusiasm to break the flimsy table in her living room.

Dean feels kind of guilty about it, especially because they both fall down to the green-carpeted floor underneath and he's too hard to think fast enough to soften her fall. She ends up cracking her head on the corner of one of the wooden chairs and softening _his_ landing with her boobs.

Dean stops, strength of will enough to make sure that she's conscious and mostly pain free.

Rabbit insists she's fine, grabs his dick with enough enthusiasm to resurrect a dying man and Dean believes her. Because, honestly, a man only has so much blood in him... and his is otherwise occupied.

It's only when Rabbit is happily and contently snuggled against his sweaty chest, playing connect the dots with his freckles and Dean raises one hand to caress her soaked, short hair, that he sees the blood and the chip finally falls.

"Oh, shit! You're hurt," he says, scrambling to his feet and turning on the coffee table's lamp.

Rabbit has the lazy and content smile of the freshly fucked on her face and her nose twists in that cute way that made it irresistible for him not to pick her up at the bar. "What? No... really, I told you, I'm okay. Doesn't even hurt anymore."

Dean shows her his blood-smeared fingers and the smile disappears from her lips.

"But... I feel fine," she insists. "Maybe it's all better now?" Rabbit suggests, taking the opportunity to rack her eyes thoroughly down his naked body and lick her lips suggestively.

Easily distracted, another symptom of brain damage. Dean thinks he feels a bit nauseous at the idea of her getting hurt during sex. With him.

Dean takes one look at the chair where she hit her head earlier, sees the guilty smudge of red and decides that she's concussed.

"Trust me honey... I'm good, but I'm not that good. And you... you have a cracked skull," Dean says, kneeling beside her. "Let me take a look."

Rabbit pouts but otherwise stays still as his fingers search her scalp for any hidden breaks. In the yellow light of her lamp, her hair is a honey brown that makes it really easy to find the darker brown of dried blood.

Underneath it, though, Dean finds nothing but unbroken skin. Not even a scratch.

"Hum... that's weird," he whispers.

"Weird... no," Rabbits says, head low enough on his lap that her words morph into puffs of air that caress his short hairs and travel straight to his dick. Goosebumps jump all over Dean's skin as she moves closer. "I don't think its weird at all... t'is more yummy than weird."

And with that her lips close around him and Dean loses all track of what he was thinking about.

_/º\_

Second time it happens, Dean is drunk. Well, Sam IS drunk, like, comatose drunk, passed out in the passenger's seat. Dean is... Dean is buzzed.

Anyway he looks at the horse, there is no way to call it a zebra. He shouldn't be driving. Period.

But meeting Becky, the ho—the sweet friend of Sam's from Stanford, only served to peel off the healing scab of the Jessica size wound and Dean knows that his brother would've never closed his eyes to sleep that night if the alcohol content of his blood weren't ridiculously high.

Besides, 'his funeral' was that afternoon, and Dean had figured it was only fair to drink a few in 'his' honor. Doesn't matter that the body that they'll be putting in the ground is that of a shape-shifting son of a bitch that fucked up Dean's clean –well, at least low profile- police record. The mother-fucker still had good enough taste to pick Dean's handsome face and the charade funeral is a good enough reason to get Sam wasted.

Couldn't leave the kid to drink alone, though. Nothing more depressing than drinking alone.

The dog that Dean hits with his car on the drive back to the motel might have a different opinion.

It's a big dog, some undefined color in between black and bright pink, just some poor mutt from the street. If Dean had been sure the animal was dead, he would've probably never even stopped the car.

Road kill was road kill and no matter how badly it sucked, it wasn't like he could afford to drive to a vet clinic every time he hit something.

But the poor fella was far from dead. Dean could hear him whimper pathetically even with the windows of the car closed.

Maybe it was the alcohol, maybe it was his genetic predisposition to respond to puppy dog eyes. Either way, Dean spared a single glance at his snoring brother and got out of the car.

The dog was a mess, trying to drag himself away from the front of the car, trail of blood in his wake. Dean, who has seen more gore and blood than it should be reasonable for anyone not in the butchering business, almost barfed there and then.

"Hey... buddy, relax," he whispers in a quiet tone. Chances were, the dog will probably bite his hand off as soon as he gets close enough. And _if_ the dog actually lets him get close enough... Dean had no idea what to do. Maybe put him out of his misery.

Dean is just too drunk to think that far ahead into the future.

The minute he touches the animal's wet fur, Dean feels the jolt of electricity. Like static, crackling in the air.

It takes him a minute to realize that this static comes with pictures. He can see a bleeding organ that looks like a flat cap and a bone, crushed right in the middle.

He'd barely recognized them for what they were when the warmth starts to spread over his whole body, starting from somewhere in the area of his stomach and scattering throughout his arms and fingers.

Dean figured that this must be what spontaneous combustions felt like. Fortunately, without the whole turning into ashes nasty bit.

There's an explosion of light behind Dean's eyes and the next thing he knows, he's losing his stomach's contents by the side of the road and the dog is running away. Surprisingly fast for a mutt whose insides were half turned into mush just a couple of minutes before.

Dean just sits there, ass on the cold, grey asphalt, completely lost as to what just happened.

The next morning when, in between spouts of coherence in his hungover state, Sam asks him why the front bumper of the car is smeared with dry blood, Dean blames it on the shape-shifter that dare touch his baby and mess her up, disappears with the Impala for a whole afternoon, to 'tune her up' and neither mentions the fact ever again.

_/º\_

Third time is not only the fucking charm, it also the one that makes it impossible to deny it any longer. Someone was hurting, Dean touched that person and everything was fine afterwards. It was fucking mind-boggling.

Dean had run out of excuses. He'd been perfectly sober and in perfect use of all of his blood flow. He was in a frigging Denny's, for God's sake!

The waitress had bags under her eyes that could store a whole month's worth of groceries; the place was packed full of annoying kids and their even more annoying families and the only reason why he and Sam had even stopped there was because they were low on cash and they had coupons.

The kid was the waitress' son, that much had been made clear from the wisps of conversation both Dean and his brother could hear from the table next to theirs.

The little boy, if possible, looked worse than the mom. Like _sick_ worse. Pale skin, sunken eyes, sucked dry lips.

Dean was talking to his brother, but he couldn't help notice the nervous glances that mom kept throwing the kid's direction, even in the middle of juggling five dishes and three glasses in her hands; nor can he ignore the fact that the sun is shinning outside and this kid is sitting quietly in that annoying and over packed restaurant, lethargically coloring his book.

When the kid drops his crayon, Dean leans over to pick it up, hands brushing against the boy's fragile fingers when he gives it back.

And the static is there again. Just like that.

The kid mouths a shy 'thank you', probably wondering why the weird man won't let go of his hand, but Dean can't. Not just yet.

He can feel the disease coursing through the kid's body, bone marrow no longer able to function properly and slowly destroying everything else.

Not slow enough though, Dean figures. The kid looks about seven. The odds that he'll be reaching eight seem faint.

Dean remembers the dog, remembers Rabbit, and gives it a shot. Worse that can happen is the mom kicking him out for harassing her kid. Dean's been accused of worse.

The warmth flows easier now, either because Dean is looking for it, or because it's the first time he does it with a clear mind.

Doesn't matter. Doesn't make a difference. Dean still has no idea where this comes from, or how it works.

He does know that by the time the kid's mom comes striding in his direction, looking pissed at something and Sam is asking what the hell he's doing, Dean finally lets the kid's hand go and gets up.

To anyone looking, it seems like Dean is running away, which kind of makes it hard to prove his innocent intentions towards the kid. In fact, he's actually being nice to all those people enjoying their lunch inside, because as soon as Dean crosses the double doors, he bends over and pukes out all that he ate for lunch. Plus breakfast. And possibly a burrito from four months ago. And some nasty black stuff that he cant' really –and _won't_ really- identify.

Dean can't really be sure if the barfing thing is related to the weirdo 'healing' thing or if it's just a reaction to figuring out for sure that he _has_ a weirdo healing thing. Either way, it's a good excuse to use when Sam asks him 'what the fuck is wrong with you?' and Dean can't answer because really, he has no clue.

So he calls it stomach flu and Sam lets it fly by.

_/º\_

The puking is part of the weirdo 'healing' thing. Dean figures that one out when a skin-walker decides to attack a camping site and leaves a bleeding couple behind.

The woman has nothing more serious than a sprained ankle and a couple of cuts. The man… the man looks okay from the outside, a bit of a bleeding gash in his forehead and a bitten lip. Inside though, Dean can feel the size of the internal bleeding that nicked his… _something_ on the left side and the hole one of his broken ribs is putting through his right lung.

Sparing one look to check how busy Sam is with burning the remains of the thing they'd just killed, Dean assures the wife of the dying guy that yeah, he's just fine, closes his eyes and hopes he's not lying.

The warmth almost burns this time around, like a river of lava that Dean's skin can barely contain inside. It flows from him to the barely conscious guy and, just like that, it's over.

The nausea hits faster this time and Dean barely misses the man's head when he turns to the side and loses it.

The man on the ground opens his eyes just in time to be rewarded with Dean's bile and cheeseburgers of the day before. The 'gross' he lets out is pain free and filled with color.

Dean would've smiled, if his stomach weren't trying to get out. The black stuff is there again and Dean begins to wonder if that actually ever was something he ate at all.

_/º\_

Dean doesn't spend too much time wondering what the hell is happening to him. He takes it in stride, just one more skill, just one more way to help out others, just the same as his good aim and kick-ass fighting skills.

Besides, they have enough to deal with, what with dad missing and Sam having weird visions –and yes, Dean figures that having dreams about other people dying trumps a few mended bones and organs- so he ignores it and moves on, hardly thinking about the matter in between the moments when he's forced to use the '_matter_'.

The constant blackened puking whenever he heals someone... is kind of a problem.

Dean tries to NOT look like a bulimic chick, but the fact that he eats more to compensate, only makes it worse.

Sam finally corners him and flat out asks if he has some sort of eating disorder and if they should talk about it. Dean is almost tempted to say yes, that he's stressed that his good jeans don't fit him anymore, but he's sure that he wont be able to finish the line without batting his eyelashes and acting as ridiculous as the concept sounds to him. Instead, he calls Sam's suspicions ridiculous and tells him to drop it.

_Just old age_, Dean says, blaming it on the lousy food they eat on the road and a stomach that used to be able to deal with more.

It's crap. Dean knows it.

Sam knows it.

But it sure beats the awkwardness of the talk that would start with 'hey, guess who's a freak too?'

Some days Dean wonders if it wouldn't be better for Sam to know that he's not the only one able to do weird stuff. That maybe, just maybe, it's in their blood to do weird stuff and the fact that the Yellow eyed demon was after Sam is just a coincidence.

Maybe Sam was always meant to have premonition dreams, visions, whatever. Maybe Dean was always meant to heal. Demon or no demon.

But the thing is, Sam is clinging to the hope that, if his abilities were forced into him, then there might be a chance of them going away, a chance of averting this.

If Dean comes out and tells him about the weird stuff that has been happening to him, Sam will freak out. More.

_/º\_

When the electric discharge of the tazer hits Dean and sends him to the hospital with a barely beating heart, Dean learns that he can't heal himself, just others.

He tries.

After the doctor tells him that he has less than a month and he sees Sam's panicked face and teary eyes, Dean tries.

He waits until the lights are out and the nurse has made her rounds and disconnects the leads of the monitor before closing his eyes and concentrating within that place inside his head that fixes things.

Instead, his heart stops again with the strain of his efforts. He's damn lucky that the nurse was on her way to the bathroom and decided to peak inside his room before going back to her station.

All Dean gains from that is an even sorer chest from the compressions the staff had to do to get his heart beating again, and a suicide watch from the nurses station, who think he tried to off himself.

Next morning he's out there, back to Sam.

Dean had never tried to use his gift on something as complicated as brain cancer, but he can't bring himself to NOT try for Layla. He says he'll pray for her, because he knows that's what she'll want to hear, and as she leaves, saying that that right there is a miracle on its own, he grabs her cold hands and waits.

He's done this enough times now to recognize the black spot of her illness in a matter of seconds. It's smaller than he'd imagined, just a small stain that would've rob her of her remaining years. Dean wills himself to be an eraser, taking away all traces of anything ever having been wrong with that sweet young woman and finally lets go.

She smiles, and Dean knows she doesn't feel any different. He's glad for that. He knows she'll live now... she'll find out when the time comes and she keeps on living.

She'll thank God for the miracle. Dean is fine with sharing the credit.

_/º\_

The day Dean's carefully constructed logic, about not telling his brother about his abilities, goes in the toilet is the day Sam breaks his leg.

Badly.

In the middle of a Nebraska forest.

In winter time.

At night.

Hunting a draugr. Fucking undead Viking creep.

Dean takes care of the eight foot giant by chopping off his head as the fucker is entertaining himself, banging his brother against the trees and trying to separate Sam from his right leg.

The sound of bone breaking and flesh being torn apart shuts all other noises in the forest and, before the draugr's body even hits the floor, Dean is rushing to Sam's side.

Half of Sam's chest looks caved in, already the color of mashed grapes. And Sam's leg—

The leg... that leg is a goner. Even Dean if had the ability to just beam the two of them straight into an OR, there was no way to save that leg. The fucking draugr had... crushed it beyond recognition.

Sam was out for the count, fortunately, but even unconscious Dean could see the level of pain his little brother was in.

Dean had never been more glad and thankful for his newfound mastery of healing others.

Dean didn't even think about the amount of damage he'd have to fix. Or the possibility that this was beyond his reach.

It didn't even cross his mind that Sam would know for sure that something had happened-

Dean just rolled up his sleeves, put one hand on Sam's chest, the other on his right thigh and closed his eyes.

It was... painful.

Like two high tension live wires clicking together, electricity sparkling from within himself. Dean thought he was going to burn.

Right there.

Right then.

He fought the bile rising up; he fought the grey setting in; he fought the damn temptation of just letting go and giving himself some respite.

He couldn't, though. From what had happened before, Dean knew that the minute he dropped the connection, he'd be barfing up his insides and that black stuff and that he'll just end up too weak to get the rest done.

So Dean endured; weathered through. Fingers clawed around Sam's skin, taking one small breath at a time, one more knitted tendon at the time, one more mended bone. Just one more.

He was working on touch alone. Trying to open his eyes before it was done had almost sent him whimpering to the ground and it was not an experience he was willing to go through again.

Dean just had to hold on one bit longer, and maybe... even if he couldn't get Sam completely mended; he could at least get his brother as far from almost dead as he could.

It must've been only minutes since it'd all begun, but it felt like hours, days. Dean couldn't feel his shoulders anymore. His fingers were just a distant memory. It felt like his fingertips had melted into Sam's skin.

The grey turned into black before Dean could even check out the fucking color pallets. And then he was falling.

_/º\_

Sam was staring down at him when Dean opened his eyes. Which was kind of odd because Sam had been lying down on the leaf-covered ground before and for Dean to be looking up at his brother like he was now, that would put Dean somewhere in between underground and hell. He certainly felt like hell... maybe that was right after all.

"You son of a bitch!"

And those are just Sam's starting words. Dean can tell that he's a bit miffed. He can also tell that this is going to be a very _pleasant_ conversation.

"Why didn't you tell me? Why the fucking secrecy and... and..."

Sam has this habit of searching his hair for words when he's lost on what to say. He's doing it now, fingers running through his shaggy long hair, dislodging wet leaves and small branches. Also, he's pacing like a trapped bear. And Dean can't help but beam a relieved smile at that.

It worked.

He managed to do it. He had saved Sam's leg. He'd saved Sam's life.

"What's so funny?" Sam demands.

"You're okay... it... worked... I did it!" Dean confesses, lips extending into a bright smile. There's puke all over his shirt and he feels weak as a kitten, but the joy of seeing his brother with his leg still attached surpasses it all as he climbs to his feet.

Sam looks down, patting down his non-collapsed chest, noticing his blood soaked jeans' leg. As if he could forget the way it had felt to have a giant Viking ripping a limb out of his body.

"Yeah... man... that was--"

Dean's happiness is contagious. Sam can't help but smile too. And he has to admit, as far as their lives go, this is one awesome turn of events.

"You have a lot to tell me," Sam demands, some of the anger replaced by the feeling that he has the upper hand and Dean better spill all the beans now that the cat's out of the bag. "I wanna know everything."

"Everything? Like... all the details?"

Sam gives him a look, looming over him as they start making their way back to the car.

"Everything. From the beginning."

Dean's sly smile is faint enough for Sam to miss it.

"Okay... well, it all started when this amazing chick had her tongue five inches into my—"

"Dean!"

"Hey... you asked."

The end

AN: The title is a derivation of Stephen King's 'Green Mile'. Some of you might've recognized that the title is not the only thing that I... *cough*... borrowed from that fine story. The black stuff, the way Dean heals people, is the same as that of the main character there too :O)

This story was written for **Nong_pradu**, for her B-Day promp list. This is number 29 'Dean with healing powers'.

Beta work, as always, was provided by the lovely** Jackfan2** who, despite being _furiously_ busy with her Big Bang story, still finds the time to help me with my... er... distractions. Thank you!


End file.
